• And for maximum Aprillenesse, marke all tweetes and poostes wyth the hashtagge #whanthataprilleday15

What ys the poynte of Whan That Aprille Daye?

Ower mission ys to celebrate al the langages that have come bifor, and alle their joyes and sorrowes and richesse.

Ower mission ys to remynde folk of the beautye and grete lovelinesse of studyinge the wordes of the past. And eke ower mission ys to bringe to mynde the importaunce of supportinge the scolership and labour that doth bringe thes wordes to us. To remynde folk to support the techinge of paleographye and of archival werke and eek, ywis, the techinge of thes oold langages. To remynde folk of the gret blisse and joye of research libraryes. For wythout al of thes, the past wolde have no wordes for us.

Ower mission ys also to have ynogh funne to last until next Whan That Aprille Daye.

Note that thys event doth also coincide wyth Aprille Fooles Daye, the which ys fyne by cause we do love thes langages and alle who love are yn sum maner also fooles.

Ich do hope wyth al myn herte that that sum of yow good folke will joyne me on thys April first for readinge and celebratinge and foolinge. Lat us maken melodye.

jeudi, décembre 11, 2014

Vikinges Go Berserk

Whyle goinge through my copye of the Elder Edda, Ich dyd fynde a seccioun yclept 'The Younge Persones Edda,' the which hath verye gentil and mirthful poemes for children concerninge the deedes of valiant warriors, and eek of the Tree of Givinge that Ys Callid Yggdrasill, and eek of the Aesir and the Vanir and the Beares of Caring. Belowe, Ich have typed yn my favorite of thes fyne poemes. Enjoye, gentil folk of the blogosphere.

The Eddic Poem of the Vikinges Who Do Go Berserk

Oon Vikinge, al aloon

Carveth a bynde-rune on a bone.

Two Vikinges heed the calle

And steer their longshippes to hys halle.

Thre Vikinges, thankes to Thor,

Bringe along anothir four.

Fyve vikinges arryve decked yn sylver and gold.

Six vikinges showe up wyth a mightye troll.

Seven vikinges arryve aftir a sack.

[Manuscript defectif, prose interpolation addid: The saga at thys poynt also doth saye that on thys night
eight vikinges crept wyth great stealth through the entrance yn the back.]

jeudi, mars 20, 2014

Maken Melodye on Whan That Aprille Day

On the first daye of Aprille, lat us make tyme to take joye yn alle langages that are yclept ‘old,’ or ‘middel,’ or ‘auncient,’ or ‘archaic,’ or, alas, even ‘dead.’

Thys feest shal be callid ‘Whan That Aprille Daye.’

Ich do invyte yow to joyne me yn a celebracioun across the entyre globe of the erthe. Yn thys celebracioun we shal reade of oold bokes yn sondrye oold tonges. Eny oold tonge will do, and eny maner of readinge. All are welcome.

Ye
maye, paraventure, wisshe to reade from the beginning of my Tales of Caunterburye, but ye maye also wisshe to reade of eny oothir boke or texte or
scroll or manuscript that ye love.

Ower mission ys to celebrate al the langages that have come
bifor, and alle their joyes and sorrowes and richesse.

Ower mission ys to remynde folk of the beautye and grete lovelinesse of
studyinge the wordes of the past. And eke ower mission ys to bringe to mynde the importaunce of supportinge the
scolership and labour that doth bringe thes wordes to us. To remynde folk to support the techinge of paleographye and of archival werke and eek, ywis, the techinge of thes oold langages. To remynde folk of the gret blisse and joye of research libraryes. For wythout al of thes, the past wolde have no wordes for us.

Ower mission ys also to have ynogh funne to last until next
Whan That Aprille Daye.

Note that thys event doth also coincide wyth Aprille Fooles Daye, the which ys fyne by cause we do love thes langages and alle who love are yn sum maner also fooles.

Ich do
hope wyth al myn herte that that sum
of yow good folke will joyne me on thys April first for readinge and
celebratinge and foolinge. Lat us maken melodye.

jeudi, février 14, 2013

Tinye gifte for Valentynes Daye: Amour Ys Lyke a Potel of Wyne

O gentil rederes of my blog, how grete the peynes smerte that come to me whanne Ich thinken upon my lakke of updatinge. Swich grete busynesse hath fallen upon me that oft Ich do thynke myself nat worthy of the titel of 'blogger.' And yet twittre hath been of sum comfort, for ther Ich do tweete of litel jestes and japes at @LeVostreGC.

But to the poynte, todaye ys the daye of Saynt Valentyne, the which ys a daye that ys right speciale to me.
And for a gifte, a litel, tinye gifte, unto yow, Ich have ytranslatid the grete balade of The Feeldes of Adamantyne Force from their langage ynto myn owene.

May love quite yow yower meede, goode folk.

Happye Valentynes Daye, or woful, or funne, as yt maye suite yow,

-Le Vostre GC

HEERE BEGINNETH GALFRIDUS CHAUCERES TRANSLACIOUN OF THE BALADE OF EXTREMELYE FITTINGE COMPARAISONS MADE BITWENE LOVE AND AN INTOXICATINGE BEVERAGE, MAAD FIRST BY THE FEELDES OF ADAMANTYNE FORCE

dimanche, avril 15, 2012

A Long Tyme Agoon in a Shire Far Away

Gentil rederes, longe tyme hath it been syn Ich have been able to take reste and wryte upon this blog. Right fullye occupyed Ich have been with the makinge of poetrye, and eek wyth keepinge my Lord Kyng Richard companye.

My Lord the Kyng ys reallye into spelunkinge, and he maketh me go wyth hym every weekende. The while we are downe muckinge about yn waiste-high watere and almost fallinge over ledges, my Lord the King speketh moore and more of how "appealing" revenge semeth to hym. Ich saye to hym that revenge is never a good idea. To convince hym of the evils of revenge, Ich have written a tale of Melibee, and yet everich tyme Ich do yive it unto hym to rede he semeth to falle yn to a slumber. Ich did aske hym if the tale helde no solas for hym, and he did saye ful curteisly and kingly unto me, "Nay, think nat so, Geoffrey. It ys merelye thys newe imported feather bedde of myne from Calays that ys so softe and pleasaunt unto me. It maketh me to sleep everich tyme I do laye down on yt to rede of yower tale. Indeede, thys feather bed ys so envoluping it semeth that a man koude esily be slayne by it." And then he looked out ynto space.

Swich is My Lord the Kinge thes dayes. And yet, a tetchy kinge notwithstandinge, finallye Ich have hadde a litel space of myn owene for to maken of verses, thogh Ich feare nowe nobody doth lyke verses eny moore. Helas, for Ich am super psyched to maken severale lynes followe oon anothir for hundreds of pages, and yet it semeth everichoon thes dayes loveth oonly to twit and tweete and maken up a gret swarme of quippes and linkes. A blog semeth about as cuttinge edge as a sworde buryed in a mounde. Thogh Ich have made an accompte of twitter, Ich knowe but litel how to maken of a fyne and retweetable tweete. Litel Lowys doth mock me dailye with a fiers mockinge, sayinge “watching yow trye to tweet, Dad, ys lyk watchinge Archbishop Arundel trye to keepe hys cool a a Lollard support groupe. Helle of awkward!” The tweet so short, the crafte so longe to lerne!

And yet Ich have had comfort in myn art. For Ich am composinge a narratif about folke who are togedir ythrowne by the windes of fate and goon on a journeye.

Naye, Ich nam nat spekinge of the Tales of Caunterburye, the which Ich have temporarilye putte on hoolde, but rathir of a newe set of tales. Thinketh of this: the image of the viage of an erthely pilgrimage ys but a maner of shewinge the wey of thilke parfit glorious pilgrimage into the celestial spheeres of the skye, in which we shal weare awesome shinye clothes and have swooshie laser swordes and eek have snappye dialog and sweepinge orchestrale bakkeground musique as we flye arounde the sunnes and moones and thinges-that-are-nat-moones. And thus Ich am writinge nat of pilgrimes on erthe but of pilgrimes -- wayteth for yt -- IN THE STERRES!

Yt is but in bittes and pieces as of nowe, but yt semeth good to share my descripciouns of the characters wyth yow, my goode rederes. Ich wolde be right glad to heare of yower feedback. And eek, please lette me knowe if sum oon hath alredy made eny fable or ficcion that yn eny waye doth resemble thys oon.

***

NOTES OF CHARACTER SKECCHES FROM THE GENERALE PROLOGE OFTHE PILGRIMES IN THE STERRES

Ther was a SMUGGELERE, and he the beste,Wyth gowne of whit and snazzye litel veste.He hadde a shippe that was a noble vesselFor in twelf parsekkes it had yronne the Qessel;At customes houses nevir did he pause –For resoned he ther was but litel cause:To paye a tax or impost made hym wood,And I seyde his opinioun was good:Why sholde hys labour fatten up the paunchesOf bureaucrates that sitte upon their haunchesAnd tak their paye from honest merchauntes werke?This good man kepte the officiales in the derkeAnd oft he wolde in his shippes floore hyde. From oon ende of the sterres to the other syde,He hadde yflowne, and seene many a wondere,And yet he hadde no feare of Goddes thondere.He seyde hys destinee was hys to makeWyth blastere or wyth sleight or wyth wisecrake.Of goold and eek of love he had a thirste, In altercaciouns he ay shot firste.

A WODWOS hadde he, and servantz namo,A goodly furrye man, from hedde to sho.Hys lokkes were longe and brown as aren a bearys,Wher he hath sat, a man may knowe – there hair ys!A bandolier he wore about hys sholdereAnd of bowcastre boltes yt was the holdere.He was a worthy frende yn tymes of stresse,Thogh yif a man sholde beate him atte chesseThis gentil beest wolde th’arme rippe from the winner;Therefor he wonne as oft as Bobbye Fischer.

And ther were wyth thes two good men, on shippe,By plotte-twist yfalle yn felawshippe,Fower otheres, of which I shalle anon yow telle,(And all but oon shal lyve until the sequelle).

A TRANSLATEUR was with hem, maad of goold,He knewe ech langage newe and ech tonge oold.A conversacioun right wel this man koud carryeWyth vaporators d’eaux in tonge binarye.And yet he timorous was, and oft wolde hydeIf daunger or if batel did betyde.Whan men did fighte, for feere he almost breste.An oyle bath he loved al the beste.

And wyth hym cam a smal ARTIFICERWhos armour was as azure bright and clerAnd eek as whit as ys the whales boon.Althogh men have two eyen, he had but oon,In maner of the creatur hight cyclopes.He was so gret a clerk that ther no pope ysThat koude so muchel of calculaciounsAnd ars-metrik, and werkes of alchemie,And al the divers calculaciounsBy which to maken navigaciouns.He was a verray parfit killer app,And ofte in joye he cryed out “bweep, er-dap!”

A WHINY YOUTHE cam nexte, barleye a man,With yelwe haire, tunique, and farmeres tan.But aquaculture litel did he love,He wolde been a pilot al above And bullseye oump-rattes yn a nimble craft.Saye, have ye evir been upon a rafteAnd herde the wynde blowe fast over the waveSo that the winde did seme to sighe and rave?Wyth just swich fierceness sigheth thys yonge man,And whineth eek, and whingeth whan he kan,For he ne lovede nat his occupaciounAnd he wolde rathir go to Tashi stacioun.

And wyth hym rood an oolde EREMITE,Who knew the crafte of armes more than a lite;He loved the forse syn he a youngling was,And eek trouthe and honour, and kickinge arse.Ful worthy was he in the auncient werres,For in thos tymes he foughte on manye sterres:At Theed citee he was, whanne it was won,And many a metal foe he had outdon;And eek he made the stande at Jeonosis(the which, I trowe, was nat a bunch of roses!);At Rhin-Vare had he foughte, and Terre Sool.From Corpusant and Utapaux al hoolHe cam aweye, unnethe wyth a scraccheThogh on Mustphar he nerely met his macche.A saber loved he beste, and thoghte it fasterAnd moore gentil than eny randome blaster. Ful wys he was, no action-hero merely,Thogh of paternitee he spak unclearlye.

dimanche, décembre 25, 2011

Ryddles for the Holidayes

As ye knowe, my grete freende the writere Virginia Wulfstan doth love tradiciounal literature, and she hath devoted herself to gatheringe bits of oold literature and publisshing them for the Hrothgar Press. And alwey she ys pilinge manuscriptes and oold bookes upon my doorstep. Al thogh she hath nat convynced me of the gretenesse of the alliterative long lyne, Virginia speketh trewe about the grete awesomeness of muchel of the earlye literature of thys countrye, althogh yt oft soundeth lyk unto a Klingon wyth a stomach compleynt.

Oon the best bookes that Virginia Wulfstan hath to me y-loaned ys ful of grete riddles. Thes are thinges of muchel pleasure, for ye the redere must guess the answere of the thinge. Ryddles are totallye a waye to passe the tyme at awkward familye dinneres, and thei maken me to thynke that the Anglo-Saxones must have had many awkwarde familye situacions to endure, what wyth the feudinge and all. And eek peraventure ryddles were a waye to breaken the ice whan meetinge othir riddle enthusiastes duringe holidaye travel.

For yower pleasure, Ich have found sum of the riddles yn the old booke of Exeter yiven me by Virginia Wulfstan, and Ich have translatid those concerninge thys festive seson of the holidayes. No answirs shal Ich pooste, for Ich wisshe nat to ruine yower fun.

THE RIDDLES OF THE EXETER BOOKE CONCERNINGE ASPECTS OF THE HOLIDAYE SESOUN, TRANSLATID YNTO PROPER ENGLISSHE BY G. CHAUCER

An enemye murdered me, made me molten,Shaped me in castes, cooled me and set me.In me he set splendors manye, spelles to werke,The newefangle conjurations that make nerdes richAnd paie for manye a prius yn the baye area.He gave me a wyde face, on which ys writAlle that any crafty one mighte wisshe to knowe.The shapes of my word-scars are made wythout winges --No sky-fowles need feel death-sore to craft my chapters.Ich shal leave no meal for the sound-moth,No warm place for the page-worm,For Ich am a cold castel, thogh called a fyre.Ich am yiven as a gift this yeere, a default itemFor relatives that seeme to have everythinge els. Hippolytas daughtirs made me, hard ys my shell.

A fyre-brand Ich beare, on the boss of my brain-shield,Before me a bright beacon to blynk in the nighte.Yif ye gazed on my head-prow, that it glewen ye wolde sweare. Thogh al my stable-feres did laugh me to scorne,And lefte me no leave to laughen in their lapp-horses games,Yet oon morninge whanne erthe-breathe stuck thike to the welkin,The proud-furred man cleped me to the front of hys teame.He needed my flame, the fierce shyne of my sneeze-door.Ich did leade the warband that nighte. What ys my name?

A Holidaye Uppe-Date

My gentil rederes,

Long tyme hath it ben sithen Ich have upon my blog yposted. Ywis, many a thinge hath been afoot chez Chaucer. Yif ye wisshe for some japes and games for the holidayes, ye maye turne the leef and skippe to the next poost, but for newes of yower Chaucer, rede on.

O gentils, ye looke nowe upon the wordes of an EX-clerk of the kinges werkes. Ich have that office y-quit, the which Ich have held for quite a while nowe. By seynte Martin, that job demaundid the verye clothes off my back! Whanne Ich was not consumed wyth the bisynesse of construccion and logistiques, Ich was beinge robbed and audited. Oftymes Ich knewe nat whethir yt was a robberie or an audit, so litel ys the distinction bitwene the exchequer and a derke forest ful of brigandes.

But farewell clerkeshep! Ich have rendered my notyce of thirty dayes unto My Lord the Kyng, and am nowe a free man. The drainage of the area bitwene Greenwich and Woolwich kan take the hekke care of ytself, by Jesu, and eek kan the manye and varyed requestes that a clerke of the werkes doth receyve dailye from My Lord the Kynge, includinge the creacioun of the moost elaborate allegoricale model raylroade yn Europe (“The Greate Traine of Being”) and eek a crystal palace cunninglye devysed ynto which no rumors or newes concerninge Justin de Beibre kan evir passe. To the laste requeste, Ich threwe my handes ynto the aire and seyde that Ich ne was no Dedalus nor no Pythagoras, and yif the kyng wanted me to do the impossible he sholde sende me to wizard school.

Soon Ich shal looke for a newe job, but for the nones Ich am enjoyinge sum tyme to followe my hobbyes. Ich have taken up ayein my grete avocation – the subtil and excellent sporte of parkour. Yt ys a thinge of muchel blessedness to scalen the walles of breweryes or merchauntes houses and to leape and jumpe about lyk unto a very agile smal deere or verye powerful rabbit. Sum tyme my Lord the Kyng doth joyne me for my practise of parkour. We have grete pleasure yn clymbynge to the toppe of steeples or gret toweres whereupon eagles do perche, and we beholde the gret beautee of the contree al aboute us, and thanne oft we dyve down into a conveniently placed cart ful of hay. This oon tyme we ran ynto an Italien yclept Ezio in ower cart, that was from Florence, and he and Ich talkid a litel bit about ower favourite partes of the Purgatorio.

And what wyth al thys leapinge and jumpinge (the which hath in deed caused me to lose some weight, thogh Ich am stille far from the state of my youthe), Ich have had but litel tyme for to bloggen.

But alwey Ich do wake earlye in the morninges in thys festive sesoun, and thus Ich thoghte Ich wolde with yow gentils share sum mirthe for the holidayes. Ye maye fynde yt in the next poost.

Wyth al of my greete love and affecioun, and grete and good wisshes for yow and yoweres,